The Shadow Without A Face (Part 2)

 

The Clockmaker’s Gambit

6:47 a.m. — Zane's Apartment

Rain tapped lightly against the window as Zane poured steaming water over fresh coffee grounds. The city below stretched out in steel and shadow, oblivious to what had been set in motion.

Eli sat at the edge of the sofa, rereading the message Zane had found.

"Endgame begins in 72 hours."

“What does it mean?” Eli muttered. “A game? A warning? A threat?”

Zane took a thoughtful sip. “All of the above.”

He pulled out a worn black leather notebook and turned to a page labeled The Architect. Lucian Vale’s name was circled in red ink.

8:23 a.m. — Intelligence Bureau Headquarters

Zane’s badge barely got him past the first checkpoint. The building had gone into partial lockdown after the symbol of a queen — Lucian’s silent signature — was reported in three locations overnight: the hotel window, a metro security camera frame, and a brief flicker on a digital billboard in Piccadilly.

Lyra met him at the elevator. Her dark ponytail was tied high, blazer sharp, and expression unreadable.

“He’s back,” she said.

Zane nodded. “And three steps ahead already.”

10:00 a.m. — Crime Analysis Unit

A hologram of the chess queen hovered mid-air above the table. Lyra tapped a control pad, and all three locations displayed side by side.

“Same symbol, same style. All appeared between 3 and 4 a.m. Different districts. Different surfaces,” she said.

Eli frowned. “How’s that even possible?”

“Pre-set projection drones,” Zane answered. “Timed to appear exactly when the city sleeps deepest.”

“Which means Lucian’s warning is not just psychological,” Lyra added. “It’s synchronized. He’s planning something real — in 72 hours or less.”

12:01 p.m. — Abandoned Clockmaker’s Workshop, Shoreditch

Zane, Eli, and Lyra stood in the shadow of an old Victorian-era building, its windows boarded, the sign faded: Whitby & Sons — Master Horologists Since 1862.

“Why here?” Eli whispered.

Zane tapped a graffiti tag on the wall. A broken hourglass.

“Lucian leaves puzzles, not trails,” he said. “And this… is his style.”

They stepped inside. Dust and silence met them.

Zane wandered to the center of the room where a wall had been turned into a massive chalkboard — filled with gears, schematics, and codes.

Lyra scanned the room. “These aren’t clock parts. They’re pressure diagrams.”

“Pressure points in buildings?” Eli guessed.

Zane’s smile faded.

“No. Pressure points in people.”

1:32 p.m. — The Discovery

Behind a false panel in a wooden cabinet, Zane found something chilling — a detailed psychological profile of Lyra.

Handwritten.

“Emotional restraint: High.

Loyalty: Calculated.

Reaction under duress: Predictable.”

Lyra froze. Her name was underlined in crimson.

“He’s profiling all of us,” she whispered. “But why—?”

Zane turned the page. His own name appeared next. Only two words were written beneath it:

"Variable: Unknown."

Zane smirked. “Flattering.”

Then Eli’s file.

“Emotional: Yes.

Fear response: High.

Loyalty: Absolute.”

Eli looked ill. “He’s… dissecting us.”

“No,” Zane corrected. “He’s programming the board. Like chess. Anticipating every move.”

2:07 p.m. — The Trap

The moment Lyra touched the center table, a sharp click echoed. Steel shutters slammed over the windows. Gas hissed from the vents.

Zane’s eyes narrowed. “We’re not alone.”

From a hidden speaker above, Lucian’s voice emerged — smooth, low, chilling.

“The game begins now. Three pieces. One room. No exit.”

“Lucian!” Lyra shouted.

Zane ignored the voice. He was scanning the ceiling, eyes twitching as he calculated.

“The gas is a bluff. Not deadly — just a sleep inducer.”

“How can you be sure?” Eli panicked.

“Because if Lucian wanted us dead, he’d send a letter, not a riddle.”

Zane climbed onto the desk, pried open a ceiling panel, and found a compartment lined with gears and blinking lights.

A digital lock. 4-digit code.

Above it, a quote was engraved:

“What runs but never walks, has a bed but never sleeps?”

Eli blinked. “A river.”

Zane typed in ‘4012’ — the numeric code for the River Thames’ coordinate.

Click.

The panel opened. The gas stopped. Lights returned.

Zane dropped down. “Next time, don’t touch random tables.”

Lyra glared. “It was dusted. I assumed he hadn’t been here.”

“He wanted you to assume.”

4:20 p.m. — Debrief, Intelligence Bureau

The trap was over, but the message was clear.

Lucian was back — and playing for keeps.

“I don’t like this,” Lyra said, pacing. “He’s too calculated. He left us alive to prove a point.”

Zane leaned back. “Yes. He wants me to see how clever he is.”

Eli muttered, “So what now?”

Zane smiled. “Now we flip the board.”

7:02 p.m. — Underground Metro Tunnel, South Line

Eli stared at the graffiti in the tunnel, spray-painted onto an old maintenance wall:

“Queen’s Gambit Declined.”

Zane took a photo.

“This is not random. It’s a chess progression,” he said. “First: Endgame. Now: Queen’s Gambit Declined.”

Lyra checked her tablet. “Next move in this progression would be... Bishop’s sacrifice.”

“That’s a warning,” Zane said grimly. “Someone’s going to die next.”

9:30 p.m. — Lyra’s Apartment

Alone, Lyra scrolled through her archived case files.

One name caught her attention — a former MI-6 cryptographer turned private contractor: Ernest Glade. Disappeared five years ago. Last seen working on AI-driven predictive warfare models.

The same man who trained Lucian.

She picked up her phone. Dialed Zane.

“We need to talk. Lucian’s not playing alone.”

11:59 p.m. — Rooftop, Central London

Zane stood overlooking the skyline, wind tugging at his coat.

He lit a match and burned the page titled The Architect from his notebook.

Eli approached behind him. “You okay?”

“No,” Zane said honestly. “Because he knows what I’ll do before I do it.”

“But you’re Zane Faulkner. Doesn’t everyone say no one can predict you?”

Zane looked up at the stars. “Maybe. But he’s getting close.”

Midnight — Somewhere in London

Lucian Vale stood in a sterile white room. On the table before him was a digital blueprint labeled:

“Operation: Mirror Room.”

He clicked an audio file.

Zane’s voice played back: “He didn’t pour the wine. And the music box is playing the wrong tune.”

Lucian smiled faintly. “Soon, Mr. Faulkner. Very soon.”

He picked up a black queen chess piece and placed it at the center of the board.

To Be Continued...